


Stucky One-shot Collection

by nightowlbleedswords



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5 + 1, Bartender!Steve, Fluff, M/M, Modern AU, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Protect them at all costs, Slow Burn, Stucky - Freeform, aka idgaf about factual accuracy, and you can't stop me, blatant fluff, bucky and steve are emotionally compromised, fluffly like clouds or meringue, i don't think i'll ever write anything sad about these two because i love them too much, i will write them falling in love in a million different ways, i'll leave that to MCU, i'm a sucker for love confessions, if it's cheesy and cliche, if you're looking for fluff, like a little persian kitten, maybe smut, meet cute, my friend you have come to the right place, one shots, postserum!steve, preserum!Steve, romantic sunsets, sometimes sam is a well-meaning idiot, steve and sam watch parks and rec, steve wears dress shoes bucky wears converse steve is captain and buck's on the bleachers, the understatement of the century, they are so clueless and adorable, unashamed fluff, what a pair of idiots, writer!Bucky, you'll find it here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-08-07 17:08:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7722814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightowlbleedswords/pseuds/nightowlbleedswords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I decided to make my own Stucky one shot collection. It's a challenge for me on multiple levels: I rarely post any of the stuff that I write, and writing fiction does not come naturally to me like nonfiction. here I go.<br/>Basically, I'm just gonna write whenever I am able. I want to cover a wide range of prompt categories to create as diverse a collection as possible, so the majority of this collection may just be exploratory, at least for me anyway... BTW I haven't put much in the tags because I don't really know where this is going to go yet. But if you pay attention I update the tags as I write new stuff. so things will slowly appear. :)<br/>DISCLAIMER: I own no characters here<br/>**I have read so much fanfic that I may inadvertently copy someone else's idea. If you see something that looks like something you've read/written before, please let me know so I can remedy the situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Writers' Block

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [My Spirk One-Shot Collection, Part 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1477246) by [IvanW](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvanW/pseuds/IvanW). 



> Bucky is a down-on-his-luck writer trying to make it by in Brooklyn. Steve works at a bar down the road from his apartment. 
> 
> Yes, this is kind of a travesty of my life ahahaahhahhah

When Bucky finishes typing the bit that had been so divinely inspired unto him that morning, he scrolls up and reviews his work. Grim-faced, he remains unsurprised that his first inspiration in weeks ultimately amounts to little more than three or four paragraphs of text. He sighs and looks at the clock. 9:30 pm, the display reads, and the little colon flashing between the nine and the three seems to mock him on the same level as the blinking cursor.

"This," he states out loud, "is unacceptable." Sequentially, the laptop slams shut in frustration, and Bucky regards the room around him without the haze of an empty, glowing word processor for the first time in a couple hours.

Practicality gets the better of him, and he checks to make sure he didn’t damage his computer in his frustration. _That_ would be disastrous.

The thought causes him to laugh out loud, albeit unhappily. He laughs at weird things like sad irony.

_Well_ , he thinks, _it looks like I’m not gettin’ anywhere tonight… might as well go out and try to think about something else._

Bucky rolls off the bed, not clumsily, but lazily. Picking up the computer, he takes it to his desk (where he should be attempting to write) and plugs it in to charge.

In the bathroom, he gives himself a once-over, pulling his hair out of the bun in which it had been tied and letting it hang freely around his eyes. The hair tie, loose and stretched almost to its limit after several months of use, has left little creases at varying points in his hair. It’s not ideal, but it’s not like he’s trying to impress anyone. He also makes a mental note to buy more hair ties the next time he’s at the store. If he can afford them.

\---

The bar down the road is dimly lit and more crowded than he expected for a Tuesday night. _Doesn’t the rest of the world have a life?_ He wonders to himself somewhat bitterly. So what if he had kinda been hoping for some relative privacy to brainstorm on his (actual paper) notebook? He’d been lying to himself when he thought he could forget about the (lack of) text, and, more importantly, the publisher’s due date. Besides, maybe alcohol in his system might wake up some part of his imagination that he couldn’t quite reach without being under the influence.

Discouraged, Bucky pushes his way past a clump of bright-eyed, college-age girls and slumps down on the last stool on the far side of the bar, three seats away from the nearest customer. It’s his usual spot at this particular hole in the wall, and it’s just how he likes it.

He waits for the bartender to get around to him for what seems like an unusually long time. _What’s taking him so damn long?_ He mutters under his breath. _Maybe he hasn’t noticed me because I’m in the corner._ It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been unintentionally snubbed simply because his effort to snub everyone else was more successful than he anticipated. Just as he’s about to call out to the guy when he sees him pick up his tray at the other end of the bar and start delivering drinks down the row. It’s a very organized strategy, with each drink placed in the order of the seated customers. Bucky has seen this guy working here before, and he always does this same trick when he’s got a lot of orders at once. It’s kind of cute, if he thinks about it. Bucky decides that since the bartender is headed in his direction anyways, it’s probably best to just wait until the bartender arrives.

Which soon enough, the bartender does, and he immediately places the last drink on his tray onto the bar and slides it towards him. Bewildered, Bucky opens his mouth to point out that he has neither paid for nor ordered this drink when he notices that it’s a whiskey on the rocks, like he usually orders. Still, he makes a questioning eye contact with the bartender who is still standing in front of him, as if he is expecting this inquiry.

“Anonymous has ordered you this,” he says simply, cool and nonchalant.

Bucky glances down at his drink. “Oh,” he replies. “Okay. That’s weird, because I only—” Bucky stops talking abruptly, not because he is interrupted or he forgets what he is going to say, but because the information from his rods and cones has finally connected with his brain, and they are telling him that this particular bartender is unexpectedly hot. It had been hard to tell in the semi-darkness from the other end of the bar, but up close — this guy is gorgeous.

“Because why?” the bartender prompts, looking up from the margarita he has begun to prepare.

“Be— because I only walked in a few minutes ago,” Bucky finishes, somewhat lamely.

The bartender smirks. “Well, I guess shaggy and brooding is attractive to some people these days. Who would have guessed.” With that he walks off to the counter to retrieve a lime and paper umbrella, leaving Bucky rather dumbfounded with one hand around the whiskey and the other on his notebook, which lay unopened on the bar.

Bucky didn’t know whether to be offended or… what. Shaggy and brooding? Is that what he came off as? _I guess,_ he considers, _it’s not like it’s not true._

A minute or so later, the bartender finds his way to Bucky’s side of the bar again, and Bucky takes the opportunity to say: “Hey… who you callin’ shaggy and brooding?”

The bartender looks up briefly before refocusing on his task at hand. Another smirk pulls his mouth into an attractive, offhand grin. “Well do I have to spell it out for you?”

Bucky thinks, _damn_. The sass. And he laughs in spite of himself, earning him a more real, genuine smile. “You flatter all your customers like that?”

If the lights were a bit a brighter, Bucky might have perceived the blush that colors the bartender’s cheeks. But they aren’t, so he can’t be sure if he is just imagining it when the other man blinks hastily down at his work.

It’s the spur of the moment that acts when Bucky holds out his hand. “Hi. I’m Bucky.”

For a split second, the bartender looks unsure of himself, but it’s only a split second, and then he takes the offered hand and smiles (shyly?). “Steve.”

It’s not that Bucky is trying to hold on to Steve’s hand longer than standard handshake procedure, but he is disappointed when Steve breaks away to cart off a couple of beers, and is even more so when Steve doesn’t seem to get a chance to make his way back over to the corner of the bar for what seems like an eternity.

So — under the pretense of writing in his notebook — Bucky merely watches Steve make drinks. Yes, he knows it’s kind of creepy. But the way Steve is so cool and confident in his work that Bucky is enthralled, mesmerized by the moving and mixing of alcohol, fruit, and ice.

It’s nearing a quarter to eleven when it dawns on him that what he needs to do is, of course, to order another drink. Or, order a drink to begin with, since someone else had taken care of the whiskey dawdling in front of him. Which is intriguing in and of itself, especially with the degree of anonymity, but Bucky isn’t really interested in anyone else at the bar except for Steve.

He manages to make eye contact with him, and Steve nods, holding up a pointer finger in the universal gesture of “one moment, please.” Bucky obliges to wait.

Yet, when Steve returns a minute later, to Bucky’s astonishment, he places the same drink — whiskey on the rocks — in front of him, with the same smirk — teasing, in an I-know-something-you-don’t sort of way — and the same exasperating five-word explanation: “Anonymous has ordered you this.”

“Well if Anonymous is so intent on getting me drunk,” Bucky complains and gestures with his palms up, “why don’t they come over and introduce themselves?”

This time, Steve is the one who laughs, a deep, masculine chuckle that seems to reverberate on the counter. “I guess they’re shy,” he manages with a blush. Unexpectedly, Steve becomes interested in the notebook open on the bar, Bucky’s hand and a pen hovering next to it. “You working on something in a place like this?”

Bucky instinctively moves his hand to cover the sparse writing. “Sort of.”

“Well don’t you be as shy as Anonymous,” mutters Steve as he deftly pushes Bucky’s hand out of the way and leans over the counter to get a glimpse of Bucky’s writing.

“Hey,” Bucky protests, half-heartedly and too late, without trying to take the notebook back.

“This a brainstorm for a novel?” Steve asks with interest. “You write historical fiction?”

Bucky laughs only by blowing air through his nose. “More like, I’m _trying_ to write historical fiction. It just… doesn’t come naturally to me. But it’s what the publisher wants.”

“From what you’ve written here,” Steve indicates the page with his finger, “it looks like you can’t really decide on an era to write about.”

“Kind of,” Bucky says thoughtfully. “It’s just that there is literally so much history to choose from. I could write about _any_ event in the entirety of world history.”

Steve is mumbling the list out loud to himself. “French Revolution, American Revolution, Haitian Revolution… seems like you’ve got a lot of wars for independence on here.”

“That’s what my publisher recommended, a war book, historical fiction. And by ‘recommended,’ I mean ‘decided.’” Steve frowns. Bucky sighs. “I don’t even _like_ history.”

“Really?” Steve asks, a bit disbelieving, still engrossed in Bucky’s list of ideas. “I love history.” Bucky just shrugs in response, unconsciously leaning a bit forward on his stool, closer to the man on the other side of the counter. “You know, if you don’t like history, and you’re trying to write historical fiction, you should go with something that’s a little more…” He pauses, searching for the right phrasing, shifting his eyes around the ceiling. His pretty, blue eyes: the color of the sky right before it starts to get dark. That four o’clock in the afternoon sky. Bucky finds himself staring. Bucky finds himself too close than should be appropriate. Bucky finds himself not wanting to draw back, but he does anyway.

He pulls back a bit (not too far), and prompts, “A little more what?”

Steve sighs, giving up, saying, “I don’t know. Well-known. Common knowledge. Simpler events. Like, I don’t know. World War II. The Civil War. Something like that. Fourteen hundred ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.” Bucky looks at him quizzically, and Steve tries again. “Something that you already have a general idea about will be easier for you to use as the backdrop of your story than something on which you have to do some in-depth research before you can get an accurate understanding of events.”

Bucky nods. “I understand you mean. I just… I don’t know what to _do_.” He brings his hands softly onto the counter, pinky-sides down, to further illustrate his point. It is at this moment that a waitress alerts Steve to a long list of orders on her pad by tapping him on the shoulder and waving it in his face.

“Okay, okay, I’m on it,” Steve says with annoyance, taking the sheet from her and shooing her away. He turns back to Bucky. “Looks like the eleven o’clock rush has arrived. This—” meaning their conversation “—isn’t over. My shift ends at midnight, is it too much to ask if you would…” he trails off.

“Wait for you?” Bucky finishes, perhaps a little too quickly. “Dude, yes. I haven’t been able to get anything worth a shit out of this assignment in three weeks. I’ll wait for you all night if there’s a chance you can help me trudge through this crap.”

Steve beams. “Great. One hour. See you then.” Then he rushes off, leaving Bucky clutching at an undrunk whiskey and his own incredible luck.

\---

The hour goes by relatively quickly, for Bucky at least. Steve is taking orders as fast as he can make them, which is impressively fast. He lines up beer mugs (nine or ten in a _row_ ) and pours the beverage skillfully and efficiently. The way he works now makes Bucky realize that earlier, Steve was taking his time with the drinks, being artful, enjoying the preparation. It’s captivating, if Bucky must say so himself.

When Steve clocks out, Bucky is still musing over the advice he had already given him. It’s when Steve shows up on his side of the counter that Bucky realizes he hasn’t really thought this through at all.

“I hope you can understand that I don’t really want to stay at this bar,” Steve apologizes sheepishly.

“No, no, don’t apologize,” Bucky insists, “I totally get it. Umm… my apartment is like, two blocks from here, if you’re comfortable with that.”

“Okay yeah, that’s fine. I’m not really worried about anything,” Steve mumbles with a small smile.

Bucky chuckles as they step into the street. “Haha, I don’t blame you.” He motions to Steve in general, and Steve laughs bashfully. “What kind of workout regimen do you do?”

“Actually,” Steve begins, “this is something that’s been a work in progress for like, seven or so years now. I used to be really small.” They stroll comfortably, side by side, but purposefully, due to the lateness of the hour.

“I’m not sure if I can believe that. Try again.” Bucky grins wryly.

“It’s the truth! What do you want me to say? That I go to the gym every other morning, change in the third locker room on the right, listen to a playlist that’s part Fall Out Boy, part 80s rock, and always hit Smoothie King afterwards for either a lemon matcha power smoothie or a strawberry-banana protein boost with coconut milk?”

Bucky covers his mouth in mock astonishment. “Oh, my _god_ ,” he intones. “The sass from your mouth is _unbelievable_.”

“You have no idea,” Steve mutters, mimicking in mock anger.

“Hopefully, I soon will,” Bucky responds, rapid-fire, before he can stop himself. He looks away, cheeks burning.

Steve doesn’t say anything for a moment. They keep walking. Then he nudges Bucky’s (slightly lower) shoulder, and whispers, “Jerk.”

It takes a second, but Bucky nudges back and whispers, “Punk.” They continue the rest of the way in silence. Nice silence.

\---

“You want some coffee?” Bucky asks politely as he shuffles inside, hits the light switch, and tosses his keys in the bowl next to the door. He takes his shoes off and leaves them where they are, and Steve follows suit.

“Nah, I’m good,” Steve replies, equally polite. Bucky hangs up his own coat, and then helps Steve out of his. “Well, well. Looks like you do have manners after all.”

“Oh, my god.” Bucky leads Steve into the living room and tosses his notebook onto the couch. “Lemme go grab my laptop from the plug.”

When he emerges from the darkness of his bedroom he finds Steve reclining on the sofa, studying Bucky’s notebook (already deep in thought), and sporting both fashionable glasses and a pencil tucked behind his ear. _This,_ he thinks, _is gonna be a great night._ Bucky takes the opportunity to pull his hair up, and then plops down on the couch next to Steve. “So what are your thoughts?”

\---

Three hours later, Steve has leaned his head back all the way to the wall and is currently engaged in “resting his eyes.” In response to Bucky’s knee prodding his own, he mumbles, rather unconvincingly, “Yep, m’awake. M’listening.”

Considerably drowsy, Bucky tries once again to present a viable plot line, reading from his computer screen. “Okay, so how about this. World War II. Two American soldiers, best friends. One of which is somehow—” Bucky yawns like a giant “—enhanced. A super soldier. The other is more or less a regular guy. But — get this — they’re totally gay for each other, but because it’s the 40s they can’t admit it.” Another yawn ensues.

Steve nods without opening his eyes, sleepy and approving. “Kay yeah, but do they ever get together? Because if not that would be…”

“That would be… horrible. Yeah, they get together. They do. Don’t worry, Stevie.” Bucky reaches out to pat him on the shoulder, but ends up touching his face. Steve doesn’t mind. Bucky doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.

“Buck?” Steve asks in a small voice and leans his head towards Bucky’s hand.

“Hmm?”

“Can you turn out the light?”

“Yeah, hold on…”

Steve is asleep before he hits the switch. Bucky is asleep before his head returns to the couch cushion next to Steve.

\---

Bucky wakes up slowly. Sunlight is seeping in from a closed window. It floats through the room, dancing, and alights softly on the blond hair of the man sleeping next to him.

Steve.

Steve, illuminated, is breathing quietly, and holding tight to Bucky’s arm, as if Bucky is more capable of protecting him than himself. His forehead pushes into Bucky’s shoulder. His mouth is slightly open. Kissable.

_This is it,_ thinks Bucky. _This is how I die. Crushed between a sofa and an adorable, brilliant, incredibly hot giant because I didn’t want to move and wake him up from his dreams._

It’s at this particular moment that Bucky realizes he’s fucked.

The light from the window obviously indicates that the two of them have slept way later than what they should have. He hopes Steve didn’t have any plans for this morning, because it’s probably mostly gone by now.

Maybe half an hour ticks by and then Steve wakes up. Bucky sees him stirring, so he closes his eyes so that Steve doesn’t think he was leering at him while he slept.

Bucky opens his eyes when he feels Steve move. He’s removed his arm from around his own, and is making to sit up completely. It’s a second before he looks up at Bucky.

“…what time is it…?” his speech is slurred with sleep.

Bucky glances at his watch. “10:42,” he responds with equal lethargy.

Steve sits up. “Sorry, didn’t mean to…”

“Nah, it’s okay.” Bucky cuts him off before he finishes. “Do you wanna eat here or do you wanna go to Starbucks?”

“Mhmm… Starbucks is fine.”

“Okay. The bathroom is through there if you wanna go first.”

“Okay.”

\---

“Man, the line at this place is like…” Bucky begins as they exit Starbucks.

“The most long-ass line that was and is and is yet to come,” says Steve. Bucky grins. “Exactly.” He clutches his grande latte with both hands. Steve holds his espresso the same way.

They walk in silence for a bit, the inverse of the night before. Comfortable, but leisurely. People stream on either side of them in all directions. The sun glows like a welcome-home beacon. Steve is leading Bucky this time.

They end up passing the bar that is Steve’s workplace, and continue past it.

“I think,” muses Steve, “that we live equidistant from the bar.”

“Really?” wonders Bucky. “Then why didn’t you say that last night?”

“I didn’t think it made a difference,” he replies coolly.

“Oh… alright.”

They’re standing on a street corner waiting to cross when Steve points out his building to Bucky. “That window right there is mine.” He takes him by the elbow in order to correctly aim his line of sight.

“Good to know.”

“Yeah. It’d be pretty pathetic if you started throwin’ pebbles at the wrong window,” Steve pokes, nudging him in the shoulder.

“You…” Bucky nudges him back, but can’t think of a single negative term to call him. “… _punk_.”

The stoplight changes, and the two of them cross in the midst of the eternal New York crowd. When they reach the other side, Steve tightens his grip on his elbow and mutters into his ear, “You know, you’re the one who’s the real jerk.”

“Excuse me? _You’re_ the one who’s the king of all the sass that’s been headed my way for the past twelve hours or so.” Bucky acts playfully indignant until he faces Steve under the portico of the door to his building, which opens right onto the sidewalk. Steve looks completely serious.

“I have a confession,” Steve discloses quietly, as he punches in the code and opens the door.

“Hm? What’s that?” Bucky isn’t entirely sure what’s happening now, but he follows Steve inside.

Steve stares at the floor. “You know last night, those drinks that were bought for you by Anonymous?”

It takes a second of Bucky regarding Steve with intent curiosity before he says, “…wait.”

Steve doesn’t look up.

“ _No_ … It was you, wasn’t it? _You’re_ Anonymous!” Bucky pushes at Steve’s shoulder. “It was you the whole time!”

Resignedly, Steve sighs. “Are you mad?”

Bucky grins. “Well, I guess shaggy and brooding is attractive to some people these days. Who would have guessed.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “You’re not mad?”

Bucky is laughing at the irony. There’s a table on the inside next to the door, and he sets his coffee down. Then he reaches and takes Steve’s right out of his hands, somewhat aggressively, to place it next to his own.

“Hey, what— Please don’t be ma—”

Bucky takes him by the shoulders. He looks deep into Steve’s wide, blue eyes. Bucky says, deliberately, almost through gritted teeth, “ _Anonymous has ordered you this.”_

And then the distance between them closes. ---


	2. Five times Bucky finds Steve and once that Steve finds Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "short and sweet.  
> besides I want something light and fluffy"
> 
> ^That's the summary I wrote before I wrote the actual chapter. That's what I actually wanted but for some reason I now have 4000+ words of feels???  
> 

1.

" _Damn it!_ " Steve yells, slamming his fist into the metal wall of the underground Hydra hideout.

"Steve," Natasha intones, placating while crossing the distance of the empty room to put her hands on his shoulders and look him in the eye. "Steve, you've got to calm down. We knew this lead was a long shot when we came down here."

Steve's muscles don't relax. "I know," he growls.

"Look at me," she commands, and Steve stubbornly, reluctantly glares at her. "Steve. We _are_ going to find him. It just won't be today."

Steve is quiet, and then sags against the wall behind him, and slides all the way down. "It's just..." He speaks after a while. "It's just that, every time we get a ping on facial recognition, or a string of dead Hydra agents, and we suit up and head out, I get so hopeful that this time, we won't lose him. And I get so damn _excited_ , like somehow after all the failed attempts I still expect a good result, and then I just let myself down." His hands fall to the concrete floor on either side of him, palms facing up; empty.

She crouches next to him. "I know how much he means to you."

"Yeah," mutters Steve, and his voice cracks. "But he doesn't." She reaches out and rubs the arm closest to her, and at the touch Steve's emotional control wavers. His face scrunches up, and he says, plainly, "I just miss him. A lot. And I've missed him since 1944."

Natasha is silent, sharing in his grief, and the entire room is silent too, perhaps the entire base. But then — a noise. Low. Indiscernible. Steve and Natasha tense up immediately, suddenly aware of how vulnerable they are in this moment, and wary of who or what could possibly be in the Hydra facility with them. He reaches up for his shield. She puts her hand on her gun. (They really are a perfect, symmetrical team.)

They make eye contact. A shoe scuffing on the floor? The click of a gun safety? A screw falling out of a door hinge? All these possibilities and more flash through their minds simultaneously. They hear it again. Louder, maybe closer, this time, but still unidentifiable. It's only been a second or so since the last one. It could be anything. It could be anyone.

And then, nothing. The facility is silent once more, but they have yet to move from their positions. Natasha goes first, rising smoothly from her crouch without even a hip popping. Steve follows, just as quiet but not as graceful. The door through which they entered is not the only door in the room; there's another directly across from it. They decide without even consulting each other: She heads for the one on the left, Steve the one on the right. They stand pressed against the wall to the side of their respective doors, facing each other. His door is open; hers is closed. Natasha holds up a finger and mouths something. _один_. One. Steve reciprocates with his index and pointer fingers. _Two_. They mouth _three_ and _три_ at the same time, and then whirl through the doorways perfectly in sync, weapons at the ready.

Steve is momentarily relieved when nothing and no one, not even a remnant of agents, confront or attack him on the other side of the door. He peers down the dim hallway walks down a little ways, confirming that he is, in fact, alone.

Steve is momentarily relieved, until he realizes that whatever the noise was, it must have originated from Nat's door. He hauls ass back the way he came only to run into Natasha before he reaches the threshold.

Steve is momentarily relieved, until the emotion in her eyes and slightly open-mouthed expression on her face registers in his brain as potentially foreboding. His face blanks. His heart tightens. Natasha takes his hand and murmurs, wide-eyed, "There's something you need to see." He allows her to lead him back to the hallway that she covered.

The corridor is musty and full of shadows... including one shadow in particular, with ragged dark hair and a metal arm covered in charcoal for the sake of stealth. A shadow with a real, leather-bound arm outstretched towards the doorway, as if reaching. A shadow lying face-first on the concrete in front of them, blood leaking lazily from a wound in his side.

"Oh," manages Steve, stunned, splintering, frozen. "My god." Nat is pretty sure she glimpses a tremor in his shield arm next to her.

"The noise we heard," she adds, quietly, almost reverently. "It was him coming to you."

Steve nods, trembling. "He found me." He still hasn't moved.

"Come on," she urges. "Let's get him up."

 

2.

It’s been a couple days, and Bucky has spent them in a recovery room deep in the recesses of Stark Tower. Mainly Pepper and Bruce have been working with him, but they’ve employed Sam to keep Steve out of their way, and away from Bucky.

“He needs to focus on healing not really his body, because of you know, serum, but his mind,” Bruce insisted, barring Steve’s way through the door on the dawn of Day 1. “You’ll just distract him.”

Pepper appeared behind him, looking at Steve pointedly through her rectangular glasses. “You better than anyone should know what he has been through.”

For the first day, Steve was okay with this. For the second day too, actually. He wants the best for Bucky, and he’s not selfish enough to interrupt at this critical stage just because he wants to see him.

But now it’s the end of the third day, which was already starting to push it this morning, knowing that Bucky was both in the same building with him _and_ no longer under mind control by Hydra. He thinks, _okay, this is getting ridiculous_ , and since Pepper and Bruce will probably not let him in, he decides to wait until late night when they’ll both likely be asleep.

And that’s how he ends up utilizing his espionage skills inside his own loft at Stark Tower at one o’clock in the morning. The Tower is unexpectedly creepy in the middle of the night, with all these little lights blinking in corners and on doors, and it’s almost like Steve is anticipating something to go wrong with his illicit excursion. He slips silently into the corridor outside of the apartment and opts for the stairs rather than the elevator, so as not to alert Jarvis, the little snitch. _He probably already knows I’m up… but he can’t know my real intentions until I do something specific._ Steve figures he’s got until he reaches the lower levels of the building before Jarvis figures it out. _He probably won’t even be surprised._

Steve watches the numbers on the floor levels count down, and then takes the appropriate exit. He emerges from the stairwell into a dark hallway full of shadows, which only heightens his bad feeling. There is a melodramatic single door on this particular hallway, and Steve’s pace subconsciously increases as he nears it. Of course, it requires a passcode to get in, but it’s not like Steve isn’t tall enough to see over Pepper’s shoulder when she types it in. His fingers tap the keys out nimbly, and sure enough the door slides open, admitting him with a soft hiss. Ominously, the inside of the room is dark too, and he fumbles on the side for the light switch.

And then the light comes on, and that’s the moment when Steve’s heart drops into his stomach, because the darkness of the room had been obscuring one small, significant fact: the fact that Bucky wasn’t actually in the room.

“Jarvis,” Steve commands, “locate James Barnes.”

“Locating…” the computer acknowledges, taking its sweet time. “Conclusion: James Barnes is not in the building.”

Quietly, Steve swears to himself, a single fleeting syllable disappearing into an empty room, more of a disbelieving exhale than anything else. “Fuck.” He scrambles back into the hallway, opting for the stairs again, this time for the simple reason that he is faster than the elevator, and nearly trips over the steps in his rush. _How_ , he thinks blindly _, could I have been so naïve that I thought that he would actually stay. That he would want to stay._

He thinks, _I can’t tell the others. A posse is the last thing to persuade him to come home._

And a second later, _he doesn’t think of this as home._

He makes it to his level earlier than he expects, and pushes through the door without regard for noise or stealth, quite unlike the minutes before. “I’m not panicking,” he says out loud to himself, fabricating a calm tone in a last ditch effort of reverse psychology or some other futuristic mind shit. “And I’m not going to panic.” His fists curl in on themselves and he resorts to pacing in unplanned circles around the floor, racking his brain for any place that the Winter Soldier might run to.

Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes pass and Steve isn’t pacing anymore, he is now beating the crap out of a punching bag hanging in the corner of a workout room, courtesy of Stark Industries, that is conveniently situated inside of his loft. Another five minutes, and Steve isn’t punching anymore, he’s just staring at the bag, glaring, motionlessly scowling like everything that’s ever gone wrong in his life is all due to the existence of this particular punching bag. Then, out of nowhere, he winds up and brings the abused bag down with a swift, decisive blow. Emotionally exhausted, he stalks out of the room.

He heads into the bedroom, wondering if he should probably suit up to go search, but ends up flopping defeatedly onto the mattress, facing the wall. He squeezes his eyes.

A low knocking interrupts the tirade of his mind. Steve rolls over, turning his face to the window. Perched on the wall of the balcony outside is a shadowy figure, a silhouette exuding a relaxed casualness. Frowning, Steve gets to his feet and, sliding back the glass door, sticks his head out.

The silhouette smells like smoke and faint cologne. A grin beckons in the glow of the city.

“Do you know,” says a familiar voice, “how goddamn _hard_ it is to not only break _out_ of Stark Tower, but then break back _in_?”

Steve chuckles, low in chest, and the floor watches a smile break his face clean in half while he shakes his head slowly.

Bucky swings his legs and hops down next to Steve. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been out here for like, thirty minutes!”

Steve wordlessly wraps him into a hug. Bucky is shorter than him, which, weirdly, still feels a bit odd, as if seventy years isn’t enough time to get used to his height.

Muffled, Bucky mumbles against his shoulder without protest. “Next time I’m just gonna break your screen door. This is your first and only strike.”

“You know,” Steve says, the voice in his throat vibrating against Bucky’s face. “You could have just walked in through the front door.”

Bucky pushes back to look him in the eye, frowning like the problem with that is obvious. “My way is faster.”

Steve smiles at him, that sad, hopeful, puppy-dog crack of a smile that usually signifies that if Steve had no shame, then he would probably be crying right now.

“Stop that,” Bucky murmurs, “you’re breakin’ my heart.” The city isn’t cold right now, but the elevation makes them both shiver and hold each other close.

“Well,” Steve replies smartly, “then we’ll be even,” as if they needed to be.

 

3.

The next morning Steve is sitting on a stool in his kitchen drinking orange juice when he hears a knock at his door. “It’s open!” He calls without trepidation, marveling at the feeling of being safe at home.

Soft, measured footsteps reply to the click of the door knob. “Here you are,” says a smirk and some messy hair.

“Buck,” Steve responds, his smile already blooming.

Bucky meanders to the other side of the counter and leans down onto his elbows. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“The irony of that statement kills me,” Steve sighs and sips the glass in his hand.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Bucky admits and looks down. “I just need to talk to you.” His fists push into his cheeks.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” Steve eyes him suspiciously.

“Stop that,” Bucky protests. “You don’t have to cart me away to the doctors every single time I show up at your door. It’s like you think I’m crazy or somethin’…”

Steve scoffs. “As if Bruce and Pepper wouldn’t have assembled the entire team to search for you last night once they found out you were gone.”

“Yeah, see, but the key there is _“once they found out.”_ They only _“found out”_ because you’re a little snitch, just like that damn computer Howard’s kid’s got this place outfitted with,” Bucky mutters, rolling his eyes, angry but unable to stay mad.

“Buck, you know I only did that because I’m trying to do what is best for you right now. I don’t want to screw this up when we’ve come so far.” Steve reaches for Bucky’s wrist and holds it tight, urgently looking into his face. Blue eyes meet brown like it’s the first time in ages, which, that’s because it is. Steve nearly chokes right there.

“Damn it,” Bucky swears softly and then pauses. “I was going to ask, what is it that you are so afraid of, and then – then I remembered.” He drops his face into his hands. “Oh, my god. Oh, my _god_.”

“Nope. Stop this right now,” Steve commands in his Captain voice. “Whatever you’re thinking. Stop thinking it.” He puts his hands over Bucky’s, framing his face. “Buck, you gotta stop. What you’re doing to yourself right now, it’s the same thing that Hydra did to you all those years. You’ve got to stop the cycle.” Bucky’s eyes squeeze tighter. “Buck. Please. Buck, it’s me. It’s Steve.” Little lines that Steve has never seen before crease in Bucky’s forehead. “Bucky, open your eyes. Look at me.”

Bucky breathes two audible breaths – two loud attempts for control – and blinks directly at Steve’s eyelashes. Their foreheads touch over the counter. They are silent for a moment.

Then Bucky speaks, and his voice hardly works. “Oh,” he says. “Hey, you.”

Steve smiles. “Hey yourself.”

Bucky frees his real hand and lays it on top Steve’s. “Thanks for that.”

“Of course,” Steve pulls back a bit and nods. “You want some orange juice?”

“I would _love_ some orange juice; you have no idea.”

 

4.

Late that afternoon Steve is walking from the kitchen to the living room on the main floor when he hears footsteps enter the room that he had just exited.

“Hi, um… you seen Steve?” a voice inquires hesitantly.

Sam is a friendly person, but Steve suspects he’ll hold this grudge for a while, however playfully. “Just went through there.”

Steve waits a few seconds to allow Bucky to join him.

“Hey,” he greets him. “I was just on my way to watch a movie or something. Try to relax.”

“That’s good. Bruce just released me for the day, and he says I should really focus on relaxing,” Bucky says as they begin to walk in step.

“Well I’m glad you could join me,” Steve offers a nice smile, and Bucky wonders where the awkwardness came from. Then he remembers it’s always been there, and he snickers to himself.

“What?” Steve asks. “You laughin’ at me?” He flips the light switch off in the living room and opens the blinds on the windows in order to let in the unadulterated four o’clock sun.

Bucky smirks and looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “Yup.”

“I guess some things never change.”

That makes Bucky laugh _hard_ , and suddenly Steve can’t help tearing up.

“No, dammit, what did I do?” Bucky crosses the room to stand in front of him by the window, a concerned look saddening his features. But Steve just stands there immobile, hanging his head and chuckling as well, while slow tears glisten on his face.

“Buck, you didn’t do anything. It’s just…” Steve looks out into the city “That was the first time I’ve heard you laugh in a really, really long time.” His gaze meets Bucky’s again. “I’ve missed you.”

Bucky just stands there, and it hits him pretty hard that yeah, he has missed Steve, too, and it pains him deeply that Steve has to be the one to say it. Bucky just stands there, beholding Steve at his most vulnerable, all illuminated and teary and golden. Bucky just stands there, until he throws his arms around Steve and doesn’t let go. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “that I couldn’t come back sooner.”

“No, Buck you don’t have to be sorry for anything—”

Bucky cuts him off with a fierce whisper. “Now _you_ stop it. I don’t need you telling me what I can and can’t be sorry for. I need you to stop throwing yourself all over the place for me, physically and emotionally. You, Steve, out of anyone, are the one I should be busting my ass for; you’re the only one out of anyone who’s the closest thing to actually _worth_ it.” His metal fingers find the back of Steve’s neck and their foreheads touch. Bucky looks him in the eyes. “So let me be sorry that I have missed so much time. Let me be sorry that I have missed so much _you_.”

They stare at each other for a second, intense and silent, unsure. Steve’s arms are wrapped around Bucky and hold their waists together. Bucky’s real arm has slid of its own volition to tug on Steve’s left elbow, while his other hands remains in its place on his neck. They break neither the physical nor the eye contact.

It’s at this perfect, beautiful moment — the moment that Steve and Bucky both think everything’s _finally_ going to fall into place — at this exact moment, Sam _fucking_ Wilson strolls through the open door, a cup of coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other, and whose small cry of surprise startles them both and they bolt apart like they’d shocked each other with electricity.

“Uh,” Sam says lamely.

Bucky just stares at Steve from the five feet away where he had happened to land, and then turns on his heel to stalk out of the room, brushing against Sam somewhat passive aggressively on his way.

Sam turns to Steve, who just avoids his pointed glances and grabs the remote from the coffee table before slouching against the couch cushions. “You feel like _Parks and Rec_?”

One of Sam’s eyebrows quirks towards Steve and he queries, “We’re not gonna talk about that?”

“Nope.”

“ _Parks and Rec_ it is, then.”

 

5.

Official things. Steve _despises_ them. He hated them before the ice, and he hates them after the ice. Too much politics. Too much political correctness. It’s not that he wants to offend anybody, it’s just that somehow he can never say the words right, and then people read into it and put words in his mouth and it always ends up better if he just doesn’t say anything at all.

So he spends this ‘official’ dinner with the Presidential cabinet and the Avengers sitting in the middle of a long dining table between Sam and Natasha (who shares his sentiments) and across from some very important men whose names he cannot remember for the life of him, and trying to engage in a conversation while remaining as vague and ambiguous in his diction as possible. Natasha is better at him than this, and Sam is actually really good at this. Probably because they’ve grown up with this stuff, and he is literally from the first half of the twentieth century, which seems years away with each passing hour.

And then he sees something from home.

Well, someone.

Bucky _(goddammit)_ has somehow slipped past the Secret Service into the upstairs balcony surrounding the banquet hall and is currently smirking down at him like he’s won first prize in a hot dog eating contest. For God’s sake, he’s supposed to be back at the Tower. Public appearances are decidedly not his forte, while, apparently, being a Soviet-trained super-spy-assassin is. _God, he’s going to get himself_ killed _… as if this thought hasn’t crossed my mind before._

Bucky’s shit-eating grin disappears behind the balcony railing and Steve politely excuses himself to go use the bathroom. A guard outside the dining room helpfully directs him to a bathroom upstairs and offers to walk with him to said bathroom, but Steve declines, mostly due to the fact that he is, in fact, Captain America, and he would most likely be okay on his own.

He discovers Bucky leaning against the wall outside of the bathroom, wearing modern civilian clothes like he rarely has before, casual. It’s attractive, in an equivocal urban sort of way. He smirks again when he sees Steve, who speaks first.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” He whisper-yells, quite fearsomely in his own opinion, but to his dismay Bucky only chuckles.

“Rescuing you, of course,” he replies, taking a step forward and bringing a finger to his lips in mock seriousness. “I know how much you hate these sort of things.”

Suspicion squints Steve’s eyes. “How do I know if this is not a front for some inward emotional turmoil?”

Playfulness (or the glow of faux candlelight) glints on Bucky’s face. “Because it definitely is.” He grabs at Steve’s hand, eyeing his dressy attire and fixating a bit on the tight collar and bow tie. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

A sigh sags across Steve’s features and he tugs back in response. “You know I want to, but I think you also know that I can’t. I really can’t just disappear from an event like this.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to sigh. “Yeah. I know. It’s just…” He doesn’t finish.

Steve takes an impulsive step forward and the tip of his dress shoes nudge the toe of Bucky’s Converse. “Really stupid that we can’t seem to spend time together?”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s subconscious chooses this moment to reach up pull lightly at Steve’s collar. “How the hell are you breathing with this?”

Suddenly, Steve catches himself about to kiss Bucky on the cheek (probably). “Buck.”

“Hmm?”

“I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Okay.” Then without a warning, Bucky backs away and vanishes around a corner.

 

When the team arrives back, it’s Clint who stumbles upon Bucky passed out, dead asleep on the sofa around two-thirty in the morning.

 

1.

For the second time, it seems like days before Steve gets to see Bucky again. Well, it’s not like he doesn’t see him. They pass each other in the corridors occasionally, or run into each other in the community kitchen, but they’re always accompanied by other people, and they’re always busy with whatever happens to be going on at the moment. Natasha is informing him they’ve got a mission from Fury late that night so he should probably take a nap. Sam is being his professional VA self and going through some psychiatric healing exercises with Bucky. Thor wants to spar with Steve in the gym; Tony wants to examine the intricacies of Bucky’s technological arm.

And, in all honesty, it’s not that many days, only about one and a half or so. One and a half days is not that long when they’ve been waiting for seventy years.

But at 3 am, when Steve arrives back from the SHIELD mission exhausted, achy, and a little irritated, he decides that enough is enough. It’s been over a week and so he doesn’t care whatever else might be going on right now, because he and Bucky are going to have a little chat. He also could use some sleep, but that’s irrelevant. Natasha goes back to her room about as soon as they get back, so Steve immediately heads downstairs to find Bucky. Then he thinks of something and stops.

“Jarvis,” he commands, “locate James Barnes.”

“One moment,” answers the ceiling, and then a second or two later: “James Barnes is upstairs on the loft generally recognized as belonging to you, Steve Rogers.”

“Great, thanks,” Steve acknowledges, glad he remembered that he didn’t have to wander the building in search of wherever the hell the Winter Soldier felt like shacking up tonight. He changes direction and makes his way to his own level.

When he enters his rooms, everything is quiet, eerily similar to a night earlier that week. But, quiet is not the same as silent, and after listening briefly, he picks up on someone’s even breathing coming from the couch in his living room. “Why you always gotta sleep on the couch?” he mutters to himself, being a little noisy intentionally as he goes to sit down next to him.

Steve finds Bucky curled up serenely on his side, his hair pulled into a cute, mussed bun, but he wakes up when Steve’s weight dips the cushion down unevenly. He stretches and turns onto his back so he’s looking up at Steve. His sleepy voice murmurs, “Fancy meetin’ you here,” and ends it with a yawn.

A breathy laugh exits Steve’s nose. “Bucky,” he says, more seriously than he intended to.

“What is it?” Bucky asks as he sits up and faces him.

Steve doesn’t say anything for a while, just looks at him with those big blue eyes. Bucky wonders where his breath went, and if it is ever going to come back.

A warm hand takes his cool one, and he realizes, probably not.

“You,” Steve starts quietly, “ _infuriate_ me.” Bucky looks confused for a second, but he continues anyway and grabs Bucky’s other hand. “You _enrage_ me. You _exasperate_ me. I am so fucking _tired_ of this _shit_ that keeps pulling us apart, when it’s obvious what we both want.” Their faces are inches apart, but it’s hard to tell in the glimmering darkness.

Bucky looks down and watches his hands lace their fingers together. “You know, Stevie…” he muses, “it’s the things that pull us apart that make us value the time we have together.” His eyes travel slowly back up to Steve’s.

“When,” Steve says, breathless, “did you become so wise?”

Bucky pulls him closer, close enough to whisper, “Right fucking now.” He kisses him slowly, and they savor the taste of each other like they should have so long ago. Steve's lips are soft and Bucky's are dry, but it doesn't matter because this is _them_. In this moment, they are two teenagers on a Brooklyn fire escape. They are grimy Allied soldiers in eastern France. They are a hundred years old and youthful on a sofa in a New York skyscraper.

They are damaged; they are healing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this instead of writing essays for college applications.
> 
> Also I keep wanting to write "short" one-shots but contrary to all my efforts they only keep growing increasingly longer... ... ...


	3. Diamond in the Wreckage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't even write this on a word doc I just typed it right in the textbox because I am in fact a lazy loserTM ... I'm sorry I suck at writing action and know nothing about geographic coordinates or guns or combat and everything I know about injuries is from my one semester of high school anatomy. it's whatever and I have yet to give a fuck about factual accuracy in any of my casual writing sooo and the entire point of this is the relationship between Steve and Bucky so does anything else actually matter? i'll go ahead and tell you the answer is no

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so I didn't edit this or anything... but it is half as long as usual which is a big plus for me :) yay for stucky fics

It's the middle of a battle - gunfire swirls around Steve, entrapping him in a whirlwind of fire and metal. Somewhere nearby an explosion goes off and his eardrums protest within his skull.

In all honesty Steve doesn't even know how this particular battle started in the first place. It didn't have anything to do with him; just some side job of Tony's that got out of his control (as if they expected anything else from Tony). So now the Avengers wareere somewhere in Asia (? Steve doesn't even remember the name of the country they're in. He never paid attention in geography class anyways) taking on some rogue terrorists that even regular terrorists didn't want to deal with.

Fucking terrorists. They don't have any morals, or, therefore, any hesitations. The job sucks. It's nearly impossible to fight when there were so many civilian casualties all around him. Of course, Steve keeps going, and the majority of his actions are more rescue missions than anything else.

There is one upside to this whole thing, though. This mission (this godforsaken, hellhole of a mission) is the one of the first that Bucky has been allowed to go on with the group since he began rehabilitation. Well, he's gone on them before, but this is the first one that he's actually gotten to participate in - mainly because his particular skills are quite helpful in this kind of situation, and also because they need all the help they can get. It's a huge milestone, though Steve would have preferred that it had been a different kind of mission, and not one so emotionally deadening. _Well_ , he thinks to himself, _you can't choose all blessings_. Bucky is back, and that means more to him than he can put into words.

At the moment, he does not know exactly where Bucky is. He knows he's on a rooftop taking out bad guys before they can take out other people, but he would prefer some coordinates or an address, just in case anything... happened. But like he thought before - he can't choose his blessings.

Suddenly a silent messages flashes on his team watch as he throws another punch into a bad guy's sternum, pushing him into the floor hard enough to make a dent in the concrete. _Request for backup, ##.##.##._ A set of coordinates. _How serendipitous_ , Steve thinks as he gives the guy some nice cranial trauma to last for months, if not more than a year.

Steve taps the screen of his watch and allows it to plot a course for the specific coordinates and send a receipt to the sender. The message didn't say who had sent it, but Steve would go for any of his teammates. Besides, all the bad guys in his area were preoccupied with their broken bones and brain contusions. The watch beeps softly, announcing the directions, and he exits the building stealthily, but at a quick pace.

Turns out the building he's heading for is only a couple blocks from where he was previously, so it only takes him a few minutes to arrive. He holds his shield in front of him and cocks the pistol in his right hand, prepared for anything that could be on the other side of the door hanging crookedly on only two of its hinges. Then he enters, moving quietly, and almost completely crouched behind his shield.

To his surprise, no one challenges him. The only occupants of what had been a domestic residence are a couple of either dead or unconscious bad guys, one of which is bleeding profusely from a wound in his thigh. _Sharp object wound? So it's either Nat, T'Challa, Clint... or Buck._

Steve does a thorough check of the first floor before heading up the center stairwell that is reminiscent of that apartment building in, was it Berlin? Vienna? Who knows. As he reaches the next level he can hear the sounds of combat coming from somewhere nearby. He scans the second floor, entering every room, but it's exactly like the first. It's not until he jumps from a loud _stomp_ next to his ear that he figures it out - the combatants are on the roof. And a rooftop? That narrows Steve's list even further. _Buck_.

As fast as he can, he locates an attic ladder and pulls it down too roughly. Goddamn super strength. He ascends in less than two steps, crosses the small space, and just kind of punches the entire way through the wood and shingles to emerge into the open air... Only to see Bucky, hair bun falling out of its tie, deliver the final blow to his last remaining opponent. He's not facing him, and Steve almost cries out to warn him of a previous attacker trying as a last ditch effort to knife the sniper, but Bucky spins and fires with such speed and accuracy that his throat had yet to even form the words. Bucky whirls and trains his gun on Steve, obviously not expecting him, with something wild and frantic in his eyes, before relaxing and dropping his arm.

A look of relief passes over his features, and a small grin pushes through his stubble. Flecks of blood are splattered on his face and his untamed hair has now fully escaped the hold of the elastic. It sticks to the sides of his face and across his forehead. There's a wound on his calf that leaks, but Bucky doesn't seem to notice. The desert sun is positioned to the side of him, casting one side in shadow and the other in an amber glow. _My God_ , thinks Steve, _he's beautiful._

This is of course not the first time Steve has thought this, and hell, it certainly won't be the last. But he has never acted on these feelings; before, out of fear, but after, out of respect for Bucky's emotional turmoil and healing.

But Bucky's standing there in front of him just now, and that grin has broken into a little more than a grin, and Steve just has to ask, "What are you so happy about?"

Bucky gestures to the people (corpses?) around him and also to the neighborhood beyond, where more sounds of combat could be detected. "This," he says earnestly. "I mean, not really the fighting and the gore, but the whole saving-people thing? Being on the right side for once?" His right hand (the one not holding a bloody knife) reaches to push his hair behind his ear, but it falls back immediately after anyway. "That means more to me than anything. I'm working for good. I'm helping people. It's like, after everything, I still have a chance to redeem myself." At some point, his eyes had dropped, but now they come up to meet Steve's again like those of a child, like those of hope itself.

"Buck," he stammers, almost unable to find words, "you, of all people, have never needed to _redeem_ yourself." He crosses the roof and takes his hands, one flesh and one metal. The knife clatters between them. Steve takes the chance to look Bucky fully in the face, memorizing as if he hadn't done it before. "What HYDRA - what those people did to you, you have no responsibility for it. Anything that you have done out of coercion, that is not on _you_. That is on _them._ You gotta understand, Bucky -" Steve takes a breath, takes a risk, and tilts his forehead to Bucky's "- everything that you have done that is good, that you chose for yourself, those things determine who you really are. You are an amazing person, Buck, and what you're doing now - that is who you have always been. You're brave and kind and selfless. You still care about other people, and the fact that you still want to help them, the fact that you ever fought against HYDRA at all, that means you have courage and tenacity beyond anyone else in the world. You are more of a hero than I can ever be." He cups his face and strokes softly with his thumb.

Bucky leans into his touch almost subconsciously, his forehead scrunching at Steve's words and his eyes growing wet. "How can you believe that? About yourself? About me?"

Steve laughs through his nose. "Isn't it obvious? Bucky... I've known you for a hundred years, and I know you now. You have proven yourself a thousand times over, and you deserve everything." Bucky's head tilts, a puppy-like incomprehension. "Okay, clearly, you're not understanding." Smiling, Steve pulls him by the hand into the shelter of a protrusion in the roof.

"Clearly, you're over-idealizing," Bucky retorts, allowing himself to be pulled, a sarcastic smirk tugging the corners of his mouth. "I hope you know what you're doing, if that is the worldview that you look at everything through."

"I know," Steve replies smoothly, " _exactly_ what I'm doing. And thank you very much, but _'everything'_ looks pretty damn great right now, if you ask me." One hand reaches up to Bucky's neck and cradles the back of his head, the other pushes his hair out of the way.

"You little _shit_ ," Bucky realizes with wide eyes, "you're in _love_ with me, is that it?" It's more of a statement than a question. Steve doesn't protest, doesn't even waver. As if something like a little realization could faze him at this point in his life. "Fuck. I must be the blindest person in the world, alive or dead." To punctuate the assumption, he pulls on the front of Steve's uniform, and also on Steve's face. Their mouths connect suddenly, melodramatically - something explodes behind them at the same time, but they don't even flinch. Steve pushes him inside the attic and against the wall, Bucky tugs on his bottom lip. At some point a terrorist appears out of nowhere (well, out of somewhere, but they were kind of busy to follow up on that) and Bucky shoots him easily without even taking a break. He re-holsters the weapon and enjoys the feeling of Steve's hands in his hair.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Steve says, "Wait - why are you so blind?"

"You idiot," Bucky mutters as he works his way around Steve's jawline, "I've loved you since before HYDRA, before the war - before everything, probably. It's been a hundred years, and you, motherfucker, have given my life meaning in a hundred different ways."

"Well," Steve laughs. "Goddamn. Seems like we've missed out on a lot of time, huh?"

"Congratulations, you have just made the understatement of the century," Bucky murmurs his sarcasm against his ear. Steve pulls him away and tilts their foreheads together again so he can look him in the eye. They stay like that for awhile, leaning against the insides of a broken building in a broken land.

"Hey," Steve whispers softly, "why did you call for backup? You clearly had it under control."

"What do you mean?"

"On your watch, it sent a message."

"Oh..." Bucky holds up his wrist, revealing that the screen of the watch is splintered with chunks of glass missing and wiring hanging out of the band. "I guess it must have been automatic." He chuckles. "Is that why you came up here and busted completely through that wall?" Steve blushes for not the first time that afternoon and Bucky pokes him in the chest. " _You_ were worried about me, huh?"

"Buck, I'm always worried about you, babe," Steve kisses the tip of his nose.

"Whatever. I think, uh, we have a job to be doing..." Bucky starts, but finds himself distracted by Steve on his neck. "Steve. _Ohhh._ Steve. Come on, we gotta go..."

Steve sighs and pulls away, but not before leaving a nice mark just below his collar. "Okay. Now we can go."

"Okay, I gotta grab my stuff from the roof." Meaning his sniper gear, he reluctantly begins to walk away. Just before he exits the alcove of the attic, Steve grabs his hand. Bucky looks back at him, once more bathed in sunlight.

"Damn... I just want you to know that this-" he gestures between the both of them "- isn't over. Expect this conversation to continue once this is all over."

Bucky genuinely smiles in the sun, that 40s dancefloor-grin Steve hasn't seen in decades. "Oh," he says evenly, "I would surely hope so." Then he disappears around the corner.

Steve stifles his simultaneous chuckle and gasp, and then heads down the ladder, thinking that sometimes the world is a terrible place, and some people are capable of terrible things, but there are still diamonds in the wreckage, and one in particular that he will always fight for.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I overused the dashes


End file.
